


Enjoying The Scenery

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John Watson, Gift Fic, In Which The Author Projects Their Raw Lust Towards Martin Freeman's Nose Onto A Fictional Character, Jock John Watson, M/M, Minor Injuries, Prompt Fic, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 14:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18661822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is on a stakeout in Regent's Park, and his mind keeps wandering to the attractive jogger who passes him each day.John Watson is recently home from Afghanistan, and during his daily jog, he catches the attention of a gorgeous busker.Too bad they can't work up the nerve to make a move before an assassination attempt tries to ruin everything.





	Enjoying The Scenery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0foxgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0foxgiven/gifts).



> The portions which are in bolded italics are Sherlock's inner monologue/deductions. Thirsty, thirsty deductions.

As far as stakeouts went, this was certainly shaping up to be one of the more enjoyable ones. 

It wasn’t the case itself, which was a simple matter of watching a suspect for several hours a day to wait for him to make a misstep so Sherlock could make his move. He hadn’t needed a disguise, and his only props were his violin and the open hard carrier placed on the ground to become an easily forgettable busker in front of the empty bandstand. Even if the case didn’t pay well, he’d already earned his rent for the next two months from some generous audiences.  

It wasn’t the weather, which was comfortably mild with only a few clouds in the sky most days. Far enough into spring that the swans had hatched their cygnets and were chasing pedestrians away with violent squawks and flapping wings and getting into fights with bicycles. The flowers were in bloom and the grass was crisply green.

It wasn’t even the pleasure of getting out of his flat for a while and have a proper excuse for not answering his brother’s repeated phone calls.

No, it was the  _ scenery _ . 

Everyday at precisely four minutes past six, Sherlock’s suspect left for the night and he was able to relax and enjoy the views. He would take himself to the steps of the bandstand and lean up against one of the posts overlooking the water so he could tend to his sore fingertips. Tourists would wander by taking photos and pointing at the sights, young men would throw a ball around to show off to sunbathers, and Sherlock could hear the gentle rustling of the breeze through the branches of an enormous willow. 

At nine minutes past six, the highlight of Sherlock’s day arrived. 

Flushed up and damp with sweat, a jogger made his way around the shore of the lake, and without fail would stop to lean against the trunk of the tree to check his pulse. He was short and stocky, with solidly built thighs that looked like they could support the weight of another person with ease, and a jaw that looked like it could break knuckles before it would bruise, with a smoky shadow of a day’s growth of beard. He wore loose shorts and a tight shirt with a bag strapped to his back. 

Sherlock would deny that he was so conventional as to have a ‘type’ but if he would ever admit it, this jogger would be a sweat-shining example of it. Anyone who took the time to glance his way would see the close clipped hair of a military man, but with none of the smug superiority of a fanatic. A kind and selfless man, twice he had delayed continuing his trek to give directions to tourists. Once to a couple who genuinely needed them, and once to a pair of overly enthusiastic women who insisted on touching his forearm every few seconds until it eventually ended in a squabble between them. Athletic enough that his pace didn’t wind him, but Sherlock was pleased to see that when he lifted his shirt to wipe at his face, his stomach didn’t show the chiselled muscles and sunken hollows of someone whose entire existence was centered around a gym membership and a fad diet. 

And when he bent double to plant his palms flat to the ground to stretch out those sturdy thighs, his shorts clung between his rounded cheeks. He was wearing a jockstrap. For a brief, breathless moment Sherlock was the same stumbling, stammering youth who forgot how to form sentences after a cute lad from another school shot a grin in his direction. The feeling didn’t pass until the object of his admiration straightened and stretched his arms over his head. Then it was replaced by a wholly different one when the jogger had to tug his shorts back into place before heading back off to finish his first lap. 

It was twenty minutes past six before Sherlock felt he could stand up again. 

  
  
  


 

 

John loved this park. While he was in university he and friends would come to toss a ball, and just stepping back onto the grass reminded him of being tackled to the ground and having his shoulder dislocated and three fingers broken. His right index finger still didn’t quite bend properly. 

So much more than stepping off that plane at Heathrow a few months ago, coming to the park felt like he had truly come home. He was back in London. 

His physical therapist had suggested he start jogging. And unlike his regular therapist, John didn’t think she was an idiot, and took her advice seriously. After an hour of having his arm stretched, his strength tested, his muscles jabbed, prodded, and pulled until he would plead for mercy, a jog through the park was the gentle cool down he needed. He suspected that the suggestion was also to get John out around other people in a casual setting, but the attempt at deception wasn’t enough to put him off her treatment or her plan. 

Besides, the scenery was beautiful. 

He had noticed the musician on his second trip. The first, he was too focused on trying to remember how to get his body to obey his orders to let his gaze wander past the ground in front of him. When he was able to admire his surroundings the next day, his eyes had fallen on a man with dark messy hair and a long, lean figure putting a violin away. 

The man was not remotely John’s type. His tastes usually ran towards voluptuous curves, or strong muscles, rather than someone so lanky. His complex feelings about his own sexuality notwithstanding, the men he was normally attracted to were fellow soldiers or athletes and the occasional actor. But he found himself drawn to this man, and over the next several days had tried to work up the nerve to approach. More than a few times, John had caught the other’s eyes and knew that he wasn’t the only one interested. Taking that first step was difficult, and every time John made a move toward the bandstand, his shoulder would twinge, or his leg would feel weak, and he remembered that he was just a broken old toy soldier with nothing much to offer other than trauma nightmares and a sarcastic wit. He would clench his fists and steel himself. Take a deep, steadying breath.

Then continue with his jog, passing the man by for another day. 

  
  
  


 

 

It was driving Sherlock around the bend. He could see that the jogger was close to coming up to him. Just the day before, he had taken a handful of strides away from his usual route in Sherlock’s direction before changing his mind and carrying on. 

The stakeout wasn’t enough to keep his attention anymore, and Sherlock found himself trying to think of ways to finally draw the jogger over. While watching, he had figured out more about him that only helped Sherlock’s -and he was disgusted to think of the word- crush grow stronger. 

He was a soldier, that much had been obvious from a first glance. On the third day he had worn a faded olive drab shirt with RAMC across the chest. The bleach stain on the sleeve and the peeling fabric paint made it clear- he was a doctor, but it wasn’t a bragging point for him. He wouldn’t be the sort to correct someone on his title or demand respect simply because of his choice of career. That casual regard meant he was good. A skilled, confident man didn’t need others to tell him, he was sure of himself from his own experiences. 

His clothes were a little worse for wear, but expertly mended. His shoes were high quality but plain, and his socks didn’t match. He was a man who was more interested in comfort than style, and didn’t see the need in wasting money on appearances. He would admire someone’s looks, but be more drawn to their personality and intellect. 

The fourth day, he wore a tight black and red striped rugby jersey, and Sherlock had spat out a curse of frustration as the connections between his brain and his hands stopped firing for a moment and he dropped the money he had been counting. That night he researched the team name and found himself staying up well into the night watching videos of Blackheath players clashing into each other, grunting, fumbling, groping for purchase and scrambling in the mud. He fell asleep to the sound of bodies impacting in a scrum.

  
  
  
  


 

 

John had lost track of how long he had been pining over the busker. His physical therapist had listened to him wax poetic about breeze tousled hair and sharp cheekbones while she worked on the mangled ruin of his shoulder for well over a week. If she noticed that he complained far less than he normally did recently, she didn’t mention it. Instead of feeling sorry for himself about his injuries, he was worrying about making a good impression on a stranger. When he watched himself in the mirror it was to correct his form and check the way his muscles flexed rather than looking mournfully at his injuries. He was taking great strides towards recovery. 

“I’m going to do it,” he told her toes with his face crammed into the hole of a massage table while she gave him his after session rub down. “What’s the worst that could happen? If he turns me down, I’ll just change up my normal route so I don’t have to see him again. I can handle a bit of rejection from a stranger.” Her toes didn’t look convinced. “I’ll just go up to him and introduce myself,” he insisted before letting out a yelp of pain as a particularly tight muscle popped loose in his back. 

He changed his plan a dozen times just while he was in the shower. One moment he wanted to be aloof and casual, the next he decided that romantic would be best. Listening to the other men in the change room gossiping, John scrubbed his hair and hummed to himself. Maybe he would buy a flower and offer it to him. Or a bag of popcorn, to be playful. Or he could show up early and rent a swan boat and invite him out for a paddle around the lake. 

The hum turned to a cheerful whistle while John made his way across the room to his locker to dress. He tugged on a pair of shorts under the towel knotted at his waist and dug out his Blackheath jersey. 

It wasn’t completely one sided, John was certain. When he’d worn the jersey the week before, the busker had sworn and dropped several of the coins he was counting into his violin case. Part of him was sure that it was because of the other man’s interest in him that John was so anxious about making a move. Being turned down by someone who couldn’t be bothered to give him the time of day was easy to ignore. But disappointing someone would sting. 

“Right,” John told himself as he hopped from one foot to the other to tie his trainers. “You’ve done this a hundred times. Make it a hundred and one.” 

He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way out of the building, not noticing that in his haste to get to the park, he had forgotten to pull on his underwear when he put on the shorts. 

  
  
  
  


 

 

The last several days, Sherlock had relied on this awkward routine to chart out his time. He wasn’t expecting it to change, least of all in such a dramatic way. 

There was a small group of people crowded around the foot of the bandstand listening to him play one of his favourite pieces. It was so well remembered that he could let his mind drift and his eyes wander while his fingers did the work. His mark was on his usual bench, feeding the birds and occasionally glancing at his watch. He looked more anxious than usual, but Sherlock was willing to put that down to the heat and humidity of the day since nothing else seemed to have changed. 

Having clocked him, he continued to scan the groups of people. 

Sherlock’s fingers slipped and he hit a sharp A4 instead of the G3, barely managing to recover by turning it into a tone change with a flourish of the bow. 

His jogger was early. By almost half an hour. 

Mind racing, Sherlock drank him in, bursts and flashes of information drowning out the sound of his music. 

He wasn’t wearing underwear.  **_A hypnotic bounce of a thick penis and round, heavy testicles._ ** Why wasn’t he wearing underwear? Why was he smiling so happily?  **_His shorts pulling taut over his freely moving genitals, framing them perfectly._ **

He had been in a rush, that much was obvious. His shirt sleeve was turned inside out and his normally neat styled hair was slicked out over his ear, so it wasn’t just that his usual jock strap  **_A proper, athletic jock strap, not one of the flimsy triangle of fabric and strips of elastic models wore that would hardly contain him as he moved. Oh_ ** **god** **_. He must have to swagger in jeans._ ** had been in the wash. He was eager to get out of the  **_Scent of chlorine, damp hair, soap residue behind the ear, puckered skin on the fingertips, puncture hole on the sleeve where a key holder had been pinned._ ** fitness center where he had been working out. Why so eager? Nothing bad had happened there, not with that crooked smile and energetic bounce in his step. 

Instead of stopping to track his pulse as he normally did, he made his way across the grass to where Sherlock’s audience had begun to thin. Shorts hanging low on his hips, shirt ridden up to show a swath of skin, he slowed to a stop. Dark brown hair peeked out over the waistband of the shorts. He kept himself trimmed neatly.  **_Hot water sluicing over his body in a shower. One leg raised with a knee on the wall to work delicately between his thighs. A soap covered hand cupped and cradling his bollocks. Lifting them out of the way. Letting them drop. His prick swelling and filling out at the attention. Growing thick and heavy and hot. Soap suds dripping down its length to cling around the underside of the head until he swiped his hand over them to flick them away. With a twist of his wrist, he would bring himself to full thickness. Slow, long, squeezing strokes from base to tip._ ** He lifted an arm to rub across his forehead and left it there to shield his eyes, the better to watch Sherlock perform.  **_He shaves his armpits as well. Sensitive skin. He would sleep on high count cotton sheets and carefully lathered himself with-_ ** Sherlock flared his nostrils slightly to recognise the new scent that came in on the breeze.  **_-shea butter before bed._ **

Him. It was him. It was  _ Sherlock  _ he was so keen to get to. He had left in a rush, dressing in a hurry,trotting out of the center because he was looking forward to seeing Sherlock.

Standing still, the shorts clung to him. Not obscene. No different than if he was wearing boxers under them. But to Sherlock’s sharp eyes, everything was on display. He could see the round head under foreskin, the way his testicles rose and dropped when he swallowed. Those shorts would tent out wonderfully, framing this cock to show the slight curve and thicker mid-shaft. 

**_There’s no way you can know that. You’re simply projecting._ **

Drawing out the final note in his composition, Sherlock sucked in a slow breath through his nose before lowering the bow. He ducked his head to the audience, accepting their applause and the rain of pocket change into the case. Watching through his lashes as the crowd of tourists and day trippers started to drift away, Sherlock carefully loosened the strings on his violin and set it down. 

“That was amazing,” 

His voice was lighter than Sherlock had expected. Higher, with a trace of a chuckle. That lopsided smile reached his voice. A quick thrill went down Sherlock’s spine and he looked up from where he knelt on the step. 

“I’d noticed your case, and I was sure you sounded good, but I didn’t think you would be this good.” 

Sherlock scooped the change and few bills into a cloth bag and shut the case. “You’re a fan of violin?” He had tried to sound cool and detached, but it came out excited. 

“When it’s played well, it’s like a gift from on high. Angel’s music. I could listen to it for hours. I’m so glad I got here in time to hear you actually playing this time. I keep missing it.”

“Yesterday you got here as I was putting the bow away.” 

“So you noticed me.” The jogger grinned and Sherlock wondered just when he had become a ‘nose man’ but he could watch that round, mousey, expressive nose crinkle all day. 

“I’m fairly observant.” As much as he enjoyed the view from where he was, Sherlock straightened to his feet and grabbed his suit jacket from the railing to tug it on. “Very observant, actually.” 

“Is that so?” He propped his hands on his hips and cocked them to the side. It pulled his shirt against his chest and stomach, displaying the strong lines of his body. It seemed to be an unconscious decision rather than a deliberate attempt to show himself off. The man was confident, but not conceited Sherlock saw with relief. “That must get exhausting out in crowds like this,” he finished, nodding toward the people who were still nearby.

Sherlock swung his case onto his back and clipped the strap across his chest. “It does get fairly draining, especially when they all clump around me like they were today.” 

The man clicked his tongue over his teeth before pursing his lips out. “Maybe it would be best if I got you somewhere a bit more secluded for your wellbeing. A coffee shop, maybe?” He looked up at Sherlock through a thick fringe of golden eyelashes. On anyone else, it would have looked timid. On him, it was sly and suggestive. 

Sherlock sagged and let out a disgusted groan, his eyes locked somewhere behind the man’s shoulder. 

“Oh. Shit. Was I completely out of line there? I could have sworn…” 

Snapping his head around, Sherlock grabbed the man by the forearm. “I would love to get coffee with you,” he insisted then jerked his chin across the grass. “But right now, I have to go stop an assassination plot.”

“That’s a new one,” the jogger snorted but he turned to see where Sherlock was watching. 

Sherlock’s mark was near the water now, rocking from foot to foot with his hand hovering near the small of his back. 

“Do…” Sherlock still had a hand on his arm. “Do you want to help?” 

The growing grin was all the answer he needed. Sherlock jumped from the step, breaking into a sprint. 

“What…. Do… I… Call… You?” With much shorter legs, the other man was built for marathon runs, not quick dashes. He grit his teeth, determined to keep up. 

With a grin of his own thrown over his shoulder, Sherlock shouted his name and reached back for the other’s hand. 

Grabbing it, John laced their fingers together so they didn't lose each other. “I’m John,” he called back in reply. 

The shouts got the suspect’s attention. He whirled around to face them, considering pulling the gun he obviously had concealed under his shirt, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned on his heel and ran. He wound his way through groups of people, using them as cover and to slow his pursuers. 

Sherlock began to get winded by the time they had reached the far end of the lake and soon enough John was matching him step for step and looked like he might overtake him. He wasn’t even breathing hard. 

“He’s heading to the zoo,” John bit out when he realised. They had passed The Hub, and the suspect took a sharp right to run toward the welcome building. 

Sherlock had to admit it was a smart plan. With groups of children on field trips, young families taking in the sights and laughing at monkeys, and animals on edge, it would be the perfect place to lose them. Even if they paced him, Sherlock wouldn’t put the people at risk if he could help it. 

John shook his hand free and pointed. “You go left.” he ordered. “Circle around him, and don’t let him back track or go down to Macclesfield.” 

Blanching, Sherlock nodded. The zoo was bad enough, but just on the other side of Macclesfield Bridge were schools, a day care, and a children’s activity center. Sherlock headed toward the Outer Circle but kept his eye on his mark. He didn’t notice that he was now being closed in on from two directions, and kept his attention on the zoo’s welcome building. 

Gulping in a deep breath, John whipped his bag off his back and dropped his head and shoulders. Three years of training on a rugby pitch took over and John put in a burst of speed. 

The hard weight of the gun hit him full in the chest when John wrapped his arms around the man’s waist from behind. The pavement of the Outer Circle tore up John’s knees as they landed and he felt a searing burn in his thigh as the gun went off on impact. A chunk of pavement spat up and fell back down in pebbles on his back and several people screamed in fear. 

The burn faded, and to his relief wasn’t replaced with agony. Rocking himself to the side, John kept his weight on the man’s back as he scooted up and looked down at himself. His knees were shredded and bleeding, his shorts were tugged down under his arse, and just above his knee was an angry red burn. A muzzle burn. When the gun had discharged through the man’s shirt, the heated muzzle had pressed against John’s skin. 

“Are you shot? Christ, did he shoot you? You’re bleeding! You’re shot!” Sherlock skidded to a stop, sending more crumbled pavement spraying over the men on the ground. 

Shifting his weight, John fumbled for the gun, but the would be assassin reached it first. He squirmed and kicked him in the leg to get away, raising the gun toward John’s chest. He pulled the trigger. 

It made a sickening clunk. The casing from the first shot hadn’t ejected properly in the impact, jamming the mechanism.  He tried to pull the trigger again, his eyes wide and rolling with panic. When it still didn’t fire, he balled his fist and struck out, catching John on the side of his jaw. It snapped John’s head back, but he ended up crying out in pain and clutching his hand. 

Sherlock brought the hard plastic of his violin case down on the back of his neck. He drew back and swung again, this time at his temple. His face. The side of his head. The latch snapped open and a rain of coins fell to the ground. 

“I’m not shot!” John reached up to grab Sherlock by the hem of his jacket. He used it to haul himself to his feet, hopping on his uninjured leg. With the other, he kicked the gun onto the grass out of reach.

“You’re bleeding!” Sherlock shouted again, lifting the case above his head like a club. 

“Skinned knees. I landed on the pavement. I’m okay.” He caught Sherlock’s elbows to keep him from trying to take another swing. Just on the edge of his hearing, there were sirens approaching. The shooter was dazed and holding his head with his good hand.

Sherlock was panting hard and he looked down at John. 

Knees scraped up. Grey dust from the pavement embedded in the skin. Blood clinging, rather than flowing freely. Wouldn’t even scar. 

John’s legs were steady. A gun had been aimed at his chest. The trigger pulled. Pure, dumb luck had been all that kept him from being shot, and aside from holding his burnt leg up gingerly, he was calm. Collected. 

Comforting Sherlock. 

“Hey, it’s okay. No one’s hurt. We caught him.” John guided Sherlock’s hands back down and he pried the violin case from his white knuckled grip. He set it on the grass and rubbed Sherlock’s fingers. “Not used to working with a partner, are you?” 

“I…” Sherlock cleared his throat and shook his head. “Never worked with anyone before.” He looked down again and the colour rushed back to his cheeks. “Your shorts…” he blurted out. 

“My… Shit.” Countless times during games, John had had his shorts yanked down his thighs while struggling to make it to the end of the pitch. It happened to everyone at least once and they were expected to continue with the play as long as they weren’t being tripped up. The warm breeze on his cheeks had gone unnoticed since it usually went straight through his thin shorts anyway, but when he had turned Sherlock away from the man on the ground, he realised that his underwear were crammed somewhere in the bottom of his bag and his cock was swinging free in the wind. And adrenaline did interesting things to his body. “ _ Shit _ , that’s a hell of an introduction,” he groaned and tugged his shorts back up. It took a bit of handling, but he managed to tighten the drawstring enough to hold his growing cock flush with his abdomen. 

“Not just projecting,” Sherlock muttered to himself, smug despite the blush. 

“Projecting on what?” John asked as he adjusted himself. Being held upright did nothing to discourage his erection, and the cloth of his shorts moulded around the thickened length, the hem of his shirt barely coming to the widest point of the mid-shaft. 

Sherlock was saved from having to explain by the shooter trying to get back to his feet. The sirens grew closer, and he could see a group of police cars and ambulances approaching from the other side of the canal. 

“Stay down,” snapped John, bringing his foot down on the man’s hand to stop him from trying to reach for the gun. There was a brief struggle that ended with John knocking him to the pavement and twisting him over onto his front. The tussle did nothing to help keep his blood from rushing south.

“Here,” Sherlock slipped off his belt so John could use it to restrain the other man. 

“What are we going to do if you lose your jeans, too?” The joke was light and flirty, as if John wasn’t kneeling on the back of an active shooter, lashing his arms together. He grunted with the effort of hauling the man to his feet, using the belt as a lead. He pulled the belt sharply to twist his arms up, forcing him to choose between leaning forward or dislocating his shoulders.

“I was just hired to do a job,” the assassin wailed as he doubled over at the waist. His eye was beginning to swell shut and his nose was running. “I was just supposed to scare the woman. I didn’t know the gun was loaded!” 

He continued to protest and shout his innocence even while threatening Sherlock, and kicking and fighting with the three police officers it took to get him into the back of a patrol car. A crime scene tech collected the gun from the grass and the bullet out of the pavement while a paramedic tended to John’s injuries and detectives took statements from Sherlock and the witnesses who had seen everything. 

“It’s just skinned knees, I’m fine,” John insisted as the paramedic rinsed the grit from the wounds. The muzzle burn had already been covered in a sterile pad, and his thigh was wrapped in gauze tape. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Sherlock said from the ambulance door. “He’s been through a great deal.”

“I have n-”

“In fact,” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes dancing playfully in stark contrast to his somber tone. “I think it would be best if I brought him home to make sure he recovers in peace.” 

John’s tongue darted out to quickly lave over his lips and he turned his smirk into a wince. “You know, I think he’s right. The hospital will be too busy, but I think my partner here could do a good job of taking care of me.” 

The paramedic clucked with dismay but leaned back from his work. He snapped off his gloves and pointed at John. “Fine, but no exerting yourself.” 

  
  
  


 

“Are you sure this isn’t too much of an exertion?” 

John scowled and lifted Sherlock higher up the wall so he could wrap his long legs around his waist. 

They had barely made it to John’s bedsit on the Strand before they were tugging at each other’s clothes. The cab ride had been filled with breathless giggles and teasing touches while Sherlock explained what he had been doing in the park and amazed John with his deductions. The driver had rolled his eyes in disgust when Sherlock handed him a pile of coins to pay for the ride before they stumbled out the door. 

“Would you rather I just sit and let you do all the work?” With a hand under each of Sherlock’s thighs, John pushed off the wall and backed up to the desk. He sat with a thump, Sherlock bouncing on his lap, knocking over a cup of pens and sending the lamp crashing to the floor. 

“Oh, no. I’m far too- God, yes, right there- lazy to do the work.” Sherlock let his head fall back to give John more room to suck a bruise onto his collarbone. “And winded from running round the park.” 

John stood again, this time aiming for the bed. He dropped Sherlock to the mattress and stood over him, peeling out of his shirt. It was the first time someone other than someone with the NHS had seen his body since he had gotten back from Afghanistan. 

He was too focused on tugging Sherlock’s tight jeans down his legs to worry about how he looked. 

Then he was too busy digging out a box of condoms from his side table. Kissing Sherlock’s chest and swirling his tongue around his nipple. Admiring the look of pleasure when he rolled their hips together in a slow, deep stroke. Feeling fingernails biting into the small of his back as he pressed into Sherlock. Hissing as those nails dragged over his skin when Sherlock cried out his name in climax. 

Then he was far too busy cursing his stupidity when he noticed that his knees had bled all over his sheets. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to the wonderful Christyimnotred for checking over my work.


End file.
